


it ain't me

by weatheredlaw



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vietnam, Character Death, Epistolary, Explicit Language, F/M, Gun Violence, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Vietnam War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2018-02-12 19:01:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2121159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weatheredlaw/pseuds/weatheredlaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grif was baptized and reborn in the mud and rain, but he was revived right here, his face buried in Simmons's neck, their fingers twisted together as a siren wailed outside the window, and one decade gave way to another while the sun rose and set again and again and again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it ain't me

**Author's Note:**

> i just want to apologize for continually spitting up weird RvB fic at you guys. well actually, i don't. this is partially epistolary, so it does contain some images -- letters i wrote up, etc.

 

 

 

"Private Grif, do you wanna _die_ today?"

"No, sir!"

"Then shut your God damned mouth!" Sarge stalks off toward the direction of the other barracks and Grif settles back on his bed with a sigh, throwing a withering glance in Tucker's direction when he hears him laughing. 

"Dude, shut the fuck up."

"He fucking _hates you_ , oh my god."

"He doesn't like you either, asshole." Grif swats at a horse fly the size of a fucking _cow_ and lays back on his bunk. "This place _sucks_." 

"Quit your bitchin'." Grif looks up to see Church and Caboose coming in, looking filthy and miserable. Well, Church looks miserable. Caboose, as per usual, looks so happy he could puke. "It's going to rain forever, I swear to God." He strips off his shirt and starts looking for water. "And they're gonna make us fucking march through it, too, you know they will."

"I like marching," Caboose says simply, pulling a clean shirt over his head without washing. "The rain is nice." 

Tucker laughs. "You think everything is nice, Caboose. Hey, Grif, show us that picture of your sister again."

 

 

 

 

 

 

Church is right -- they do make them march in the rain, and Caboose is pretty fucking happy about it. They stand in line and he chitters happily away at Church, talking about his girlfriend back home, how pretty she is, how thoughtful she is, how they're going to get married when he gets back.

"Oh! Church! I just thought of something. You should be my best man."

"I hope I fucking die today," Church mutters, shifting his gun to the other shoulder. "Tucker, switch me."

"Nah, man, I'm good." He grins and pops the gum he's definitely not supposed to be chewing, but Sarge is too busy yelling at a pair of guys in the front to notice. "Besides, Grif here is my new best friend. Can I just call her Hot Sister?"

"She has a name, asshole. It's Kaikaina."

"That's a mouthful," Church says with a grin.

Tucker hoots with laughter. "Yeah I'll bet she is, too."

Grif grits his teeth and looks back at Caboose. "What your girl's name?"

Caboose frowns. "Her name is Sheila, but she is not 'my girl.' Sheila is her own person and she told me that women do not belong to men. Also men do not belong to anyone and that's why she hates the war."

"Oh, so she's a hippie _and_ a freaking feminazi." Tucker gives him a thumbs up. "Good job, Caboose."

"She's in _school_ ," Caboose insists, looking forlorn. "She is not a hippie, she is very smart."

Church sighs and bites the bullet. "Where's she in school?"

"Sacramento," Caboose chirps. "She's a women's studies major. She's super smart." Grif finds Caboose's pride a little endearing, and it makes him like him a little bit more. He prattles on for a bit longer, finally getting Church to open up about his girlfriend, a math major going to Kent State. When Caboose asks if they're going to get married, Church gets quiet and doesn't talk until they stop marching. "Maybe I could be your best man," Caboose offers gently, sitting next to Church as they unpack their gear.

Church sighs, finally giving Caboose the first real smile Grif's ever seen. "Yeah, Caboose. Maybe you could."

 

 

 

 

 

 

Their sergeant has a name, that's for sure, but he's so fucking loud and his accent is so unplaceable that Grif never bothers remembering it and, frankly, neither does anyone else. "Sir" works just fine, and so does "asshole" when he isn't listening. Tucker's pretty sure he hates Grif the most, but he had to dig the holes for the new latrines yesterday all on his own, so really it's anyone's contest at this point. 

"I'm pretty sure Caboose is making Sheila up," Tucker says one night, flipping through a magazine. "Like, there's no way a guy like that has a girlfriend."

Church laughs. "Dude, I think you're projecting."

"I am not! I'm serious, he's like a world class idiot. How do you even get into the army like that?"

"You get drafted, dipshit. That's how we all got here."

Tucker shakes his head. "Not me. I joined up, assholes."

Grif sits up in bed. "Are you fucking serious?"

"Yep." Tucker keeps looking through his magazine. "All the men in my family are vets. My dad told me if I didn't join the army, he'd put a boot in my ass so far I wouldn't shit til I was dead. And then he shaved my head and drove me to a recruiter's office."

"Yeah, that sounds super voluntary, Tucker." Grif lays back down, shaking his head.

"Hey, you gotta make your old man proud somehow, you know? Pretty sure if I fucking die out here, he still won't be happy. But whatever. Chicks dig a guy in uniform."

No one ever asks Grif if he's got a girl. He wonders if they know, and he wonders if he could ever tell them. If they're not going to say anything, he figures he should be grateful, at least, that the question goes unasked and unanswered. Letters are private, here -- no one pesters anyone else for a look or a read through. They're all going through hell together -- might as well have some privacy before you die.

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Ladies! Do you know what this is?"

No one answers for a moment, until Caboose chimes in cheerfully: "It's a machete, sir!"

"Thank you, Private Caboose. Do you know what we use it for?"

"To cut things, sir!"

"That's exactly right, private. Men, we're going to be cutting our way through the God damned jungle this morning. No more nice dirt roads. You and your lazy asses are going to be slicing through grass and trees and dignity! You will come out on the other side of this jungle wounded and small, but you will thank me for it later! Take your machetes and move out!"

Caboose seems happy that he's pleased the sergeant and picks up his machete after Church. 

"This fucking sucks," Tucker mutters, swatting at a mosquito. "If someone accidentally slits my throat, I'm not gonna complain."

"Chicks don't dig dead guys," Grif says, hacking away at a bush.

It's hours and hours before they make it through to the other side, and Grif has never been so happy to set up camp. He can barely move when it's done, and he collapses into his cot without another word. Even Caboose is silent for the night, snoring peacefully in his spot next to Church, fingers gripping his shirt tight. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

So Sheila is real, and she's kind of hot. 

"Oh my God."

"This is us at the state fair last year. I won her a teddy bear." Caboose is flipping through some photos Sheila sent along in her last letter, mostly of the two of them. Church is biting down so hard on his fist he might need it amputated, and Tucker looks like he's going to be sick. "This is her with my mom and my sisters. They really like her a whole lot."

"Nice rock," Grif says. She's definitely wearing an engagement ring in some of the pictures. It isn't big, but it's pretty. 

"I wasn't supposed to spend a lot of money on it, because we don't have a lot of money, so it was all I could get. But she loves it anyway."

Church grins, laying back on his cot and laughing at Tucker. "I bet she does."

"Church! I can help you buy rings when we're back home. You should definitely propose. I can help with that, too, I did a good job. Sheila cried a lot, but so did I." Church raises an eyebrow and Caboose's neck goes a little red. "We had a picnic before I got shipped out and I asked her then. She appreciates things like that."

"Yeah, I don't know if--" There's the sound of an explosion outside, and Church sits up straight, going to the flap in their tent and looking out. " _Fuck!_ They're here." 

It's not the first time they've seen any action since they settled, but it's the first time it's been this rough at the start. Grif struggles with his gear, hauling his ass outside behind Tucker who is looking around, trying to figure out where the shots are coming from. Sarge is bellowing orders, and Grif can see the men moving into the woods, which is pretty much the worst fucking place to fight anyone. 

"Caboose, hurry up!"

"I'm coming, I'm coming!" He takes a knee on the edge of the woods and starts firing. Out of every man in their unit, Caboose is the best shot and Grif gets behind him, shooting where he does, hoping just to hit something. The rain is coming down in sheets and it's making it worse than it normally would. The mud is in Grif's mouth, now - it lives there, with the jungle and blood and the sound of a man next to him screaming as a bullet goes through his neck. Tucker is right behind him, and the blood sprays him in the face and chest. The man just lays there, bleeding to death, and all they can do is watch. There's nothing Grif wouldn't give up right now to be home, making fun of Simmons, fighting with his sister, doing anything but laying here, in the mud, sinking further and further into it. 

It seems like hours before the enemy pulls back, and when they finally do, Grif can't even see. There's mud in his eyes and hair and under his clothes. The rain is still coming down and he has blisters on his fingers from gripping his gun. Next to him, Tucker is looking blankly in the dark of the jungle, his face expressionless, none of the usual spark behind his eyes.

Fifteen of their men are down. 

Sarge orders them back into their tents, but they can barely move, bogged down by the mud. Caboose is the one that stands, sliding his gun off his back and looking into the sky. His face is starting to show and the mud is sliding off of him in wet chunks. Without an ounce of self consciousness, he starts stripping out of his clothes. 

Church is the first one to follow him, then Tucker and even Sarge. One by one the men get out of their muddy uniforms and Grif feels like the memories of the past week are sliding off his skin with the rainwater. They stand there, staring into the sky together until the rain stops. 

And even then, Grif doesn't feel clean.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It takes a few days after a battle for everyone to start talking again. Tucker is usually the first, but this time around, he's silent, even longer than Church. Grif understands -- he saw the man bleed out, he saw Tucker realize that everything around them was a dying mess. He saw him change, just a little.

They're still not quite right when it all happens again. In the middle of the day, the rain starting up just as the first shots are fired. Grif wonders if they'll ever realize it when they're about to get their shit fucked up, but there's no time as he grabs his gun and heads out behind Caboose and Church. They move deeper into the jungle, the trees hiding the shooters, doing nothing for these out of place American kids who didn't ask to be here, didn't ask to die.

_Dear God, it's Grif. From back home. If I die, I need you to tell Simmons something for me. I need you to tell him--_

"Son of a _bitch!_ " Tucker hits the ground and fires into the trees. "Jesus, Grif, back me up!"

"I'm trying! I can't fucking see! Where's Caboose?"

"He and Church are in front of us, they've got--"

" _Caboose!_ " Grif looks up and sees Caboose hit the ground -- hip, arm, shoulder, mud coming up under him like a tidal wave. Church is on his knees, firing blindly into the trees. It seems like it takes hours to finish, but they retreat back into the jungle, and it's just the four of them, hearing Sarge's echoes in the trees, the sound of their own men firing the last few shots. There's a miserable groaning coming from the bushes, one of their own bleeding out of his back. Grif looks down into the mud and sees Caboose isn't much better off.

"Caboose!" Church is shaking him, stripping away everything to find where he's been hurt. "Caboose, man, look at me. Look at me you fucking idiot--"

"Church?"

"Dude, he's--"

"I swear to _God_ , Tucker, just _shut up._ " Church looks back down at Caboose, cupping his face in the rain and leaning in close. "Caboose, just hang on, okay? I'm gonna get you out of here." Grif sees Caboose clutching his side, sees the blood sliding between his fingers and over his knuckles. "I'll pick you up--"

"I'll help," Grif says quietly. Caboose is a big guy, too much for someone like Church, short and scrawny since the day he fucking got here. Tucker nods and helps too, picking Caboose up and carrying him out of the woods. The rain's finally stopping, but Caboose is still bleeding, even when Church starts putting pressure on the wound, and screaming for their medic, for something. When the guy finally gets there, Caboose is barely conscious, his eyes slipping closed as Church hovers too close to him. 

"Private Church, I need--"

"I'm not leaving him." Church's voice is hoarse, rattled and raw. He has Caboose's hand gripped tightly in both of his. "He's getting married. He needs to go home."

The medic looks at Church with a sad smile, then down at Caboose. There's more blood blossoming in the center of his chest, now, twisted up in the fabric like weeds. Grif hadn't realized he'd been shot twice. Church must see it, too, because he's closer now, swearing as the rain starts up again. 

"Please, please don't go. I'm sorry for being a dick. I'm sorry I was mean to you, but you can't go." Caboose doesn't seem to be able to talk anymore, blood spilling from the side of his mouth. The medic finally steps back, letting Church have him. "What about Sheila? What about your sisters?"

It seems wrong that Caboose should die silently. But he does, his head in Church's lap, fingers twisted in the dirt and Church's hands. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Grif doesn't hear Church talk for days. No one really talks. They chopper Caboose's body out with the others, and Grif wonders which of them will be next. He hasn't gotten mail in three weeks, and he hasn't had the energy to write to Simmons -- he doubts he ever will. 

Even Sarge is down, the loss of Caboose and the others hitting him hard. There's a rhetoric, Grif figures, some kind of language you learn when talking about dead soldiers. If Sarge knows it, he doesn't share it. Instead he grieves, shouts, and digs. He digs holes for latrines all on his own, roots up bushes until his hands are bloody. No one knows what to say. They've all lost someone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

When it's over, it's a lot harder for Grif to say goodbye than he thought it would be. Tucker definitely cries. Like a lot, and Grif even promises to introduce him to his sister, next time he's around the area. Church has been quiet for the past year, since they lost Caboose and then Sarge. They promise to meet up in the next month for his memorial service, and Church is pretty insistent that they figure out where Caboose is buried. 

And even though he'd rather forget everything that happened, wishes he could take it all back and make it right again -- Grif is glad to have people in his life who understand, who he can go back to and say, with just a look, that it's been hard, it's always going to be hard, and he might not ever be okay. But they'll know. 

His train pulls into the station and he can see his sister's long mess of hair from the window, twisted up in flowers like a God damned hippie. His mother is there, too, and, somewhere behind them, he can see Simmons wringing his hands, checking the number of the train and realizing with a grin that it's Grif's. 

" _Dexter!_ " His sister launches herself across the train station at him, tackling him to the ground, her hair falling into his face. "You stupid fuck, I can't fucking believe you didn't write me for like a whole fucking year--" He cuts her off with a hug, squeezing her tight and breathing deep. She smells just like he remembered, like their old house and oranges, and he realizes how much he's missed her nagging, filthy mouth. 

"I love you, too," he murmurs, and she starts sobbing into his neck.

 

 

 

"So." Simmons leans against the porch railing. Grif's welcome home party has more than died down. His mother's upstairs asleep and, despite her previous displays of affection, his sister is already bored with him, taking off with her boyfriend around ten. "I see you've come back in one piece."

"Mostly." Grif holds the neck of his beer bottle between two fingers swinging it above his mother's roses. Simmons fills the space next to him. 

"We missed you here."

"I missed you guys." He looks over at him with a smile. "How's school?"

"I graduated, Grif."

"Fuck, that's right." He closes his eyes and dips his head, trying not to think about the letters he didn't answer. "I couldn't write back. I wanted to. I started a letter every day for a month, but it just--"

"It's fine."

"No, it hurt you."

"I got over it."

"I hurt Kai--"

"She got over it."

"Simmons will you just let me--" 

"No." He angles himself toward Grif and tucks a hand behind his neck, drawing him in. The bottle slips out of Grif's fingers and falls into the mulch, and he can hear the fizz of it as it spills into the roses. "I won't." 

They kiss for a long time, and Grif isn't sure why but it makes him want to cry. He's thinking about mud, and he's thinking about the flash of his gun, and everything he will never be able to share with Simmons because it _hurts_ \-- the ache in him is a living, breathing thing and whatever person he was before, he's certain he wouldn't be able to recognize him.

But Simmons can. He can see past it and he's reaching in and pulling out what Grif used to be, the guy that flirted with him in calculus and kissed him quick behind the baseball dugout after they graduated high school. Grif wants desperately to _be_ that guy again.

And maybe, just maybe, Simmons is the way to find him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

"It's a nice spot," Tucker muses, looking around the cemetary. Grif nods, looking over his shoulder where Simmons is leaning against the car, gesturing for him to follow. He reluctantly locks the passenger door, slipping the keys into his pocket and jogging over to stand next to them. "You're Simmons then."

"Uh, yeah. That's me."

Tucker grins, sticking out his hand. "Good to finally meet you, dude." He looks up and sees Church and his wife coming toward them. "Hey, _asshole!_ Grif brought his boyfriend!"

"Good for him," Church deadpans. "And watch your mouth in front of my kid." He's carrying the boy on his hip, Allison's hand in his free one. Caboose's grave is tucked away in the back where his eldest sister said they had a small family plot. It's a clean spot, and it seems someone has recently changed the flowers. Allison sets down her own and they all take a step back. It _is_ a nice place, Grif thinks, closing his eyes. 

Church tells them later, after dinner at his house, that he's met Sheila only once, that she broke down all over again when he showed her Caboose's letter, the ring he eventually gave his wife. Sheila's mother asked him to leave and never come back. 

"She sounded like she was dying," he says quietly. Grif silently hopes they won't talk about it anymore, and Tucker changes the subject. 

He knows they won't see one another for a while, and this has been a lot harder than he thought it would be. Sarge's memorial had been different -- Caboose had meant something else, and the years between now and losing him have done different things to them all.

 

 

 

On the long drive home, he and Simmons stop to spend the night in a tiny motel. Grif gets into the shower, letting the cold water spill over him, remembering that day in the rain, watching Caboose stand in the middle of the storm, looking infinitely sad and young. It's not the greatest way to remember someone, but he'd been smiling as Church had come to stand next to him, and there isn't much more you can ask for.

"Grif?"

"Yeah."

"Are you hungry?"

He pauses. "No." Then: "Yeah, okay." Simmons laughs. "Fuck off."

"Love you, too."

Later, Grif lets Simmons press him into the hard mattress and lets go, his head tipped back and neck exposed. Simmons fucks him raw, hands holding him down by his wrists against the bed. There's a quiet desperation in it, like he knows what Grif needs, exactly what he _wants_ \-- to be split apart right down the middle, drowned and revived again and again. 

 

 

 

He was baptized in the mud and rain, over and over again, and he watched Caboose die in Church's arms and it changed him forever. Changed them all.

Grif was baptized and reborn in the mud and rain, but he was revived right here, his face buried in Simmons's neck, their fingers twisted together as a siren wailed outside the window, and one decade gave way to another while the sun rose and set again and again and again.

**Author's Note:**

> i have to say that vietnam war au's are my favorite and i thought i'd find more on here, but that's okay i'll take care of it for you.


End file.
